


To be Reborn in Fire and Light

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: They will need you,the angels told him,far, far more than we need you.And so, he waited, outside of time, confined by the Holy Fire that soon became all he knew, all he could think about. His own life, the one he'd spent with a failing Kingdom and a the Knights who served a King who had shown up too soon, tried to mend a world that needed to finish forming first, it became not unlike a dream and like most dreams, it faded as time wore on without him.Until everything changed.
Relationships: Bedivere/Kay (Arthurian), Galahad/Percival (Arthurian)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

He remembers clearly what it was to be taken into heaven by the very Angels he had prayed to, those ethereal beings of light and countless eyes and fire whose praises he had sung long before he knew what terror beholding them would spark.

They took him from the only world he had even known, treated him as if he were one of their own, his human form and their endless forms on the same plain of existence until

– until he found himself existing outside of time

– until he found himself frozen –

– engulfed by the Holy Spirit itself, visited by and then overtaken by the light of his Lord God, bound as he was, young, devout, full of Love for his God and Jesus and the Angels, so much promise for one boy to hold.

_They will need you,_ the angels told him, _far, far more than we need you._

And so, he waited, outside of time, confined by the Holy Fire that soon became all he knew, all he could think about. His own life, the one he'd spent with a failing Kingdom and a the Knights who served a King who had shown up too soon, tried to mend a world that needed to finish forming first, it became not unlike a dream and like most dreams, it faded as time wore on without him.

Until everything changed.

_They need you,_ the Angels told him as the Fire of the Holy Spirit faded into the nothingness of Heaven.

He felt as though his mind were being torn from him and replaced with something else, something not unlike a nightmare but far, far too real to write off as a bad dream for in this world there were still wars and still hate and still suffering but those things had grown beyond hope of containment or rectification. He knew, somehow, that this was the world that needed him, needed the King whose banner he had once ridden under.

Knew that it was time to join them once more.

He was falling, falling, falling again, the cold, hard ground he landed on a texture he did not recognize. It was dark and the ground was wet but no matter how hard he pushed he could not get it to move. It was night, everything around him shrouded in mystery.

And then there was light, flooding his every sense, a light so bright he could not see and then a horrible screeching sound and something hit him. He tucked into himself and rolled away as best he could and then two loud thumps came from whatever beast had just hit him.

“What the fuck, mate?” a voice – someone was yelling. Yelling at him? “What are you doing in the middle of the road at this hour?”

“Bors, don't yell, you just _hit him_ ,” a second voice said. Bors – he knew that name, in his other life. 

“Can you stand?” the first one asked, a little less yelling-like.

“I,” Galahad forced himself to his feet, “yeah.”

“I swear I'm sending you to an EMT class one day,” the second voice growled – but not at him this time, at his companion. There was a hand on his elbow, gentle, kind, “Are you hurt?”

“I,” Galahad squinted, tried to look upon the face of this gentle man, tried to make sense of anything, “I think I am unharmed.”

“What are you doing out here?” the second voice asked, still much more gentle than the first voice – the one he had called Bors.

Bors. Galahad tried to sift through his brain, tried to place the name.

“Bors?” Galahad asked out loud, and something about what he said must have been very right or very wrong because both men froze.

“Galahad?” Bors asked carefully.

“You know my name?” Galahad's jaw went slack.

“Galahad,” the second voice did not ask, but barely breathed his name out like it was something sacred or something fragile. Perhaps both – Galahad certainly did not feel unbreakable like he used to.

The reverence, though, struck him like lightning, brought the past and present together with an impact even more painful than being struck by their beast.

“Percival,” Galahad tried to see his face, but the bright lights behind the other man prevented him from seeing anything.

Percival swept Galahad into a hug and let out a strangled cry. Beside them, Bors made a sound as if he was wounded before hugging them both, muttering something about _I am so sorry, my dear boy_.

“It's really you,” Percival finally said, “I never thought I'd see you again.”

“It's,” Galahad searched for the words while wondering why none of them felt familiar, “I don't know.”

“Come, come, in the car, both of you,” Bors shepherded them into the back of his car, “Let's get you somewhere dry.”

Galahad leaned against Percival, found a solace in the other man's unrelenting embrace he wished he had known before while Bors drove faster than was probably safe or even recommended.

“We're going to Arthur's, aren't we?” Percival asked after a stretch.

“Kay's,” Bors said, “Kay's is closer.”

Galahad found a thousand questions to ask but the words for none of them. The motions of the car did strange things to his stomach, to his nerves. He feared, too, that when they got to Kay's – he assumed it was the same Kay – whatever force had brought the three of them back together would be shattered.

Still, when Bors turned the car off, Galahad followed Percival to the door of a house that looked nicer than any he had ever seen.

Bors knocked on the door three times and then they waited.

After what seemed like too, too long, the door opened a crack.

“Bors?” a voice said, “Is everything alright.”

Watching Bors, it seemed as if all words failed him and he simply gestured to where Galahad was curled against Percival's side.

The door opened a little wider to reveal a man who looked maybe Galahad's age, perhaps just a little older wearing loose black clothes and an expression that suggested he should have gone to sleep hours ago.

This young man's eyes went wide and he tuened around to run back into the house, leaving the door wide open.

“Uncle Kay!” he cried, “Uncle Kay, they've brought Galahad!”

There was something in that moment that felt like he had finally come home, and this family was going to be one of hope and second chances.


	2. Chapter 2

Bedivere was first to wake, Mordred's cries filtering through the bedroom door and pulling him out of what had not been the most pleasant dream he;d ever had.

“Kay,” he nudged the other man awake, “Kay, your nephew's screaming about something.”

“He's going to be your nephew, too, one day,” Kay mumbled into his pillow, “Wait, screaming?” He was much more awake, now.

“Uncle Kay!” Mordred's cries came closer this time, “Uncle Kay?! They – Galahad – he's here!”

“Well fuck me,” Kay was on his feet already, taking inventory of what he was wearing and decided it was satisfactory.

“Now's hardly the time,” Bedivere's reply was an automatic one, a jest that drew a soft chuckle from Kay.

Kay opened the door just as Mordred was going to grab the handle, the teen clearly frightened and unsure what to do next.

“Galahad, you're sure?” Kay asked him. Mordred nodded. “Where is he?”

“Front door,” Mordred managed to tell him, “with Bors and Percival.”

Kay nodded and headed towards the front of his house. Before he got too far, though, he turned around.

“Thank you,” he said to Mordred, who seemed even less sure what to do with that than the Heaven-stolen Knight at the door.

Bedivere was not far behind Kay, though he lacked his partner's ability to shift from deep sleep to fully functional at such a sharp pivot.

“You're still awake?” Bedivere's eyes were just barely squinted, a flimsy defense from the sharp lights of the hall.

“It's barely half-past midnight,” Mordred told him as if the men whose couch he was spending most of his nights on did not go to bed around ten every night.

Bedivere made an unimpressed noise that he may not have made had he been slightly more awake, but Mordred just rolled his eyes and followed Bedivere down the hallway.

When they got to the foyer, Kay had already invited the Grail knights – all three together again – inside and was busying himself in the kitchen with, more than likely, tea for everyone. Galahad was still curled up next to Percival, who had an arm around the smaller Knight and a look on his face that told anyone who knew him he had no intention of letting go.

“Mordred, can you make sure the couches are clear?” Kay seemed to sense his nephew's return to the main part of the house. Mordred didn't reply, but also Kay did not ask again.

There was a gentleness to the former keeper of Camelot this time, Galahad noticed almost right away, as if the hard edges the demands of both his work and his closeness to the King had not worn away at whatever inborn kindness he was born with, had not sharpened the man's base level protectiveness into something dangerous.

Still, there was a proficiency to which Kay worked despite having just been pulled from his bed that suggested it may still be there, lurking just under the surface, waiting for a need to show itself rather than acting as Kay's default.

“Galahad,” Bedivere said from the living room, “You're bleeding.”

“I may have hit him with my car,” Bors finally said something.

“So it wasn't the fall from heaven that hurt,” Kay said just loud enough to be heard, “but the machine that came after.”

“Kay!” Bedivere exclaimed as he took one of the throw pillows off the chair and chucked it at Kay. It fell short by near half a room, but Kay got the message. He held his hands up in a surrendering position and apologized in short order.

“It's alright,” Galahad managed to tell everyone, “I'm alright.”

“Come, sit,” Bedivere seemed to remember himself, “please.”

Bors nudged the boys towards the living room, where they curled up on the loveseat, Galahad tucked neatly under Percival's arm, both their eyes wide and unsure. Bors sat on the small brick ledge of the fireplace, just barely elevated off the floor. Mordred finished clearing off the couch in a hurry, piling blankets beside the couch rather than folding them and stacking a series of hand-held electronics on one of the end tables. He sat on the end of the couch closest to the other teens, similarly overwhelmed.

Bedivere sat next to Mordred, who, to Bors' and Percival's surprise, did not flinch away.

Kay finally came in with a tray of tea cups, which were passed around rather than handed out. Everyone seemed to read the steward at last taking his seat next to Bedivere as their cue to start.

“We were on our way back to mine from midnight mass,” Bors said with a heavy sigh, “when I swear he just materialized in the middle of the road.”

“I might have,” Galahad's cadence was out of sync, as if he had never spoken Modern English despite seeming to have a command of it, “The Angels, they told me _they need you more than we do_ before it felt as if they rearranged my mind. Next thing I knew it was dark and the ground would not give beneath my palms and then a blinding light followed quickly by a screeching sound and a force like getting charged by a horse as a small child and then,” he broke off his story and closed his eyes. Percival pulled him somehow closer and tucked the crown of Galahad's head under his chin.

Galahad continued: “And then they were there.”

Bors' face looked stricken, the other ways their re-introduction to Galahad could have gone clearly playing over and over in his mind.

“You make,” Kay did a quick count in his head, “nine.”

“What's going on?” Galahad asked Kay directly, “Why are we in this strange world?”

Kay and Bedivere exchanged a Look that was so deliberate it felt like a conversation they were leaving everyone else out of.

“Some of us never left it,” Kay addressed Galahad with equal directness, “but the general thought is that the land's darkest hour is coming, and we, Camelot, whoever of us make our way back home to rally once more, are going to be the last line of defense.”

Galahad's eyes went wide, a new type of terror filling his expression.

“However,” Bedivere put a hand on Kay's knee, “given that Arthur has been back for near twenty years and nothing's happened, I am not in a hurry to let a prophecy relayed to us by someone who managed to be outsmarted by a student and in turn got locked in a literal tree dictate how I go about my life.”

“And is it really a return if one of us has held Camelot in his soul all these centuries?” Bors was looking at Kay.

Kay simply shrugged.

“Who else is back? Here??” Galahad tried to steer the conversation into what he hoped was less volatile territory.

“Lancelot and Gawain,” Mordred did wince at the mention of his eldest brother's name, “Uncle – Kay – seem to think there are others who will make their way here sooner rather than later.”

Everyone looked at Kay, who seemed to debate if a shrug would suffice for a second time. He sighed, the answer evidently a solid _no_.

“You don't spend near fifteen centuries on Earth without learning some tricks,” was all Kay said.

It was Percival's turn for his eyes to go wide, the bits and pieces he had been able to glean regarding Kay sliding into place.

“You weren't the seneschal,” Percival's words were barely above a whisper, “You were, in every sense, her gatekeeper.”

Kay nodded, unbothered by the public announcement. Bedivere's grip on Kay's knee tightened just a fraction.

Galahad tried to recall what he knew about gatekeepers – which was not much – and tried to imagine what it must have been like for Kay to walk the Earth the entire him he, himself, had spent frozen in holy fire. It sent chills down his spine despite the image, the feelings, not entirely materializing.

“What about everyone else?” Galahad was overcome with the need to know how the stories of other seven whose return had not been relayed to him went.

“I was born to a woman who has no connections to Camelot,” Bors offered his story first, “and did not know – did not remember – until I was well past twenty.”

Galahad tilted his head, curious, so Bors continued: “I had a life – a college degree, a flat, a job. And then it all came rushing back one day as I was getting ready for work. It felt like drowning from the inside out before it felt like being born again.

“I found Bedivere – or more accurately he found me at a cafe near my flat while I was trying to get my head on straight. There was no way I couldn't recognize him, even though he looks quite different.”

“Souls recognize souls,” Galahad said as if it was the most obvious answer. Kay nodded.

“I sent Bedivere because he was always the friendlier of the two of us,” Kay said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth but his eyes full of humor.

“It was nice,” Bors' voice was full of relief as if their reunion was not a decade and change past, “seeing him, knowing I hadn't lost my mind.”

“Lancelot was the first to return,” Kay looked at Galahad, watching for how he reacted to his father's name, “He was also the youngest by far, barely fifteen but he slipped back into the role of King's Champion so naturally despite it being near three years before Arthur emerged from Avalon.”

There was a sudden pressure to the room, a heaviness at the prospect of Arthur, like Galahad, emerging from a similar stasis, reborn despite never having died in the first place, waking to find a world so different from the one he'd left that it seemed he had found himself on another world entirely – again – rather than the one he'd been told needed him once more.

“Lancelot,” the name felt wrong on Galahad's tongue, “you said he's been back for a while?”

“Two and a half decades,” Bedivere told him, “He live with Arthur, about three hours' drive from here.”

“I've, uh,” Mordred tried to save the situation from getting any more tense or turning awkward, “I've been back for about two years now, same sort of thing as Bors. I'd just started my A-levels when it all came back. Took a year off. Found Arthur. Tried living with Arthur, but that was a disaster. Kay,” Mordred looked to his uncle, back willingly exposed to the rest of the room, “Uncle Kay took me in after, made sure I'm looked after while Arthur and I have been mostly trying to learn to get on with each other.”

Kay looked proud, but not the haughty pride of a seneschal who's word determined Camelot's composition at any given moment, but rather a pride inspired by love for another.

Galahad smiled a bit and relaxed even more into Percival before asking, “What about you?”

“Near a week after Mordred,” Percival told him, “The closest in remembering so far.”

Galahad made a slight nodding motion with his head, neck somehow still.

That left the stories of Gawain and Bedivere untold, but there was something that seemed to make the questions stick in Galahad's throat. _What about the last two?_ he wanted to ask, _Bedivere, how did you return? Mordred, how did you brother find his way home?_

Instead, he asked, “Does my father ever talk about me?

“Often,” Kay's words were gentle, “Quite often.”

A mixture of joy, excitement, and anxiety manifested in Galahad sitting up straight, eyes bright but shoulders tense. “How long is three hours?” Somehow, not a drop of tea was spilled.

Bedivere nearly chuckled, Galahad's earnestness lending the once-War Marshall some restraint.

“We can call him if you want,” Bedivere offered, “but I do suggest getting cleaned up first.”

Galahad seemed to noticed the blood on him for the first time, dried and no more fresh blood coming, but it was still in more places than was probably healthy. His clothes, too, still held the dust of the Grail's chamber. Heaven, it seemed, had no need to cleanliness.

“Yeah,” Galahad agreed, “I, uh, I have nothing.”

“We will take care of you,” Kay assured him.

Galahad believed him, heart and soul.


	3. New, Familiar

Galahad had fallen asleep not long after Bedivere and Kay helped him clean up and found a set of clean clothes that more or less fit him. The fabric was strange, almost too soft for comfort, but they were warm and when he sat down next to Percival he fell asleep before he could even ask about calling his father again.

He awoke with a start, the hushed voices of Kay and Bedivere coming from the hallway. He sat up, which woke Percival.

“Sorry,” Galahad muttered.

Percival made a pleased sound and looped his arm back around Galahad and fell asleep in an instant. Galahad wished he and sleep got on that well.

He managed to slip out from Percival's arm in time to follow the two older men into where Kay had prepared the tea earlier that night.

“What's going on?” Galahad asked, the dim lights that seemed to be coming from the walls more than enough for him to see by.

“The animals need to be fed,” Bedivere's voice was quiet, “and we need to feed ourselves first.”

Galahad nodded and watched them work in tandem, a fluidity going on between them that seemed they had never been apart. Galahad was afraid to ask about Bedivere's return, afraid to remind Kay how long he had been alone and waiting.

And so, he watched as they pulled ingredients – some familiar, most strange – and poured them all together in a pan. He let the smells flood his senses, so much richer and fuller than anything he had ever smelled. His mouth watered and he tried not to seem as hungry as he felt, but a loud, undeniable rumble came from his stomach and seemed to draw both men's attention.

Bedivere and Kay exchanged a glance, nodded, and what felt like only a few moments later Galahad had a plate of something yellow-looking and smelling like, well, not like heaven – it was much more palatable, for one, and there were only small traces of sulfur under the richly scented food.

“Eggs,” Kay's voice was quiet, “The ingredients we had, well, back when everyone was around, but they've changed. Be careful not to eat too fast.”

Galahad grabbed a small bit between his fingertips and found it almost too hot to touch. His hunger won out, though, and he ate the beyond-warm bite anyway, Despite Kay's warning, he ate the entire plate without asking if there were utensils he could have.

His stomach sent him mixed messages, the eggs filling and much more flavorful than he remembered eggs being. Kay had plates in front of himself and Bedivere in seemingly no time. They stood as they ate, utensils in hand. Still, they gave no sign of judgment or even questions. Perhaps they had seen something similar, when Arthur emerged from Avalon. 

Had Arthur, too, felt starved? Had his King been so disoriented he was willing to accept anything told to him as the truth?

“Animals?” Galahad finally realized he should probably ask. He had not seen any animals, but he also had been so overwhelmed – and probably in pain, if the lingering pain was anything to go by – that he had not even thought to see what laid beyond the house as he was rushed inside, Percival so close Galahad and Bors so close to panic.

“Small farm,” Kay's voice was quiet – not a whisper, but rather a rich vibration that happened to form words that would not travel much beyond Galahad, “We have to feed them well before sunup or they get loud.”

Galahad tilted his head sideways.

“Rest, for now,” Bedivere told him, “if your body can handle the food and your injuries heal quickly, you can join us soon, if you're interested.”

Never before had farm chores been something Galahad felt like he was _missing out on_ , but he did not think anything was to be gained by arguing.

“If you need anything before we get back, wake Mordred,” Kay instructed him, “he knows where everything is.”

It came back in startling clarity, everything he had learned last night, everything he had seen. Somewhere in there, the ache to see his father and the fear of seeing the man rose to the surface and his stomach turned in ways he disliked beyond reason.

They must have sensed it because Bedivere was there in an instant, hands rubbing small, gentle, slow circles on Galahad's upper back while Kay spoke in a voice so gentle and caring it nearly made him cry.

“Easy,” Kay told him, “deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Galahad did his best to follow directions, to not get lost in his own head. He was unsure how long he was like that, but Percival was there, too, almost suddenly, one hand on Galahad's shoulder and the other on Galahad's knee. Percival looked worried, and it was something about that which unraveled the control Galahad felt he had over himself, over his thoughts and feelings.

He was unsure if there had been any silent communication he had missed, but Bedivere's hands were off his back and Percival's arms encircled him in the same moment, Percival's warm face pressed against his, Percival's chest and stomach pressed against his side.

Percival pressed a chaste kiss to the top of Galahad's head and Galahad felt the first tear escape.

“I need air,” Galahad managed.

“Come,” Bedivere told the both of them. Percival guided Galahad outside and sat the both of them down on the edge of the porch, legs dangling and the fog still hanging in the cool morning air. In front of them was nothing but darkness and the very first sun's rays showing gentle rolling hills and not much else.

If Galahad focused beyond the road, he could almost pretend he knew this land, or at least something like it.

Kay sat down next to Galahad, leaving enough room that it still felt like a semi-private thing, Percival wrapped around him and the land protecting them from whatever the day would bring.

“You two will be alright here?” It was a question, not a statement, so Galahad nodded. A familiar sound came from Percival's chest – one of relief and gratitude.

“Yeah,” Percival answered for the both of them.

“I'll tell Bors and Mordred you're out here,” Kay said as he got back on his feet, “and that you will be in when you're ready.”

“Thanks,” Percival said it but Galahad felt it, the gratitude for Kay's understanding.

“We'll be back out in a few, but just in passing,” Kay's voice was a little further away, “Ignore us.”

Galahad heard the door open and shut this time, the solitude a thing so expansive the panic renewed itself.

“I'm glad you're here,” Percival said it like a confession, the words shattering the infinite Galahad was afraid of facing, “It's already nicer, with you here.”

Galahad felt relief and love and regret flood him and war with each other, each trying to decide what would take charge of the rest of him in that moment.

“I'm glad it's you,” Galahad told Percival, but as soon as he said it he feared the intensity of the feeling would be washed away by the generic feeling of the statement. 

Percival squeezed him a little tighter, found a way to hold him a little closer, and the fear, at the very least, washed away and a happiness Galahad had not felt since before the Grail Quest came to its end took its place.


	4. One Call

It had been the most logical thing, using Mordred's phone to call Lancelot. It was the only phone in the house that had any charge to it and Galahad, upon finally coming back inside, was sure he wanted his father to know he was – there hadn't been a word they had all settled on, but _alive, back_ and _here_ had been the top three contenders. Bedivere and Kay were still somewhere amidst the animals and crop beds, too far away to suggest that maybe they wait for another phone to charge because if Mordred called, Arthur was going to be the one who picked up no matter which number they dialed.

Mordred had put the phone on speaker, so when it was Arthur's voice that came through and Mordred flinched away, Galahad had the realization too late that had been a risk all along. The voice, too, disembodied and too much like a haunting, put him on an edge he did not know how to talk himself down from.

It had been Bors who recovered first, who had said _“Either put Lancelot on the phone or tell him his son is at Kay's,”_ and set everything in motion, from the screaming to the even more emotional screaming to the end of the phone call. Galahad was frozen in place for far too long, Percival unwilling to untangle himself from the only person he treated like a partner rather than a companion. Mordred could not blame either of them, though, and almost want as far as supposing he might react the same way if he had ever found himself feeling that type of care for another.

The sun came up while they waited in the living room, everyone too anxious to suggest anything like food or coffee despite the lingering smell of earlier cooking.

Lancelot showed up with Gawain but no Arthur in sight. Mordred could tell it was his half-brother who had driven, the sound of the tires on the gravel loud, Gawain's too-fast lifeless bleeding into everything he did.

Mordred was on his feet first, but Galahad was out the door first. Percival hissed a mild swear under his breath and followed Galahad. Mordred let Bors follow Percival, the older man's clear desire to protect the both of them in this life, too, hinting that Bors would probably have run Mordred over or thrown him out of the way without meaning the throw part if Mordred was not faster than he was.

Mordred wasn't about to kid himself – he was never going to be faster than Bors. He still managed to get outside in time to see the last part of Galahad leaping from the top step of the porch at Lancelot, who caught his son with a cry that might have been pain, might have been surprise.

Gawain was out of the car with the door closed, but still on the side he had emerged from, seemingly using the car as a shield from whatever might happen between father and son. He and Mordred exchanged something that might be considered a glance if they were being generous with the name, satisfied with just barely recognizing the other was bearing witness to this.

_Souls recognize souls._ He'd heard it over and over again, but the closest he had ever come to feeling it personally was his reunion with Gawain. Brash, proud Gawain was taller this time, wiry when he had been so solidly built their first life Mordred could have bounced off him instead of tackled him and Gawain barely have taken notice, and an angry simmering where there had once been hubris, but as soon as Gawain opened his mouth and words came out, and doubts that had been trying to form died without really getting to live.

This, though, was Galahad's soul recognizing Lancelot's, Lancelot's soul recognizing Galahad's, a fearful joy bubbling around the both of them. Even from the front doorway, it was a tangible thing that carried a power entirely its own.

Percival was maybe an arm's length from Galahad still, clearly unwilling to have Galahad any further away from his than he absolutely needed to. Neither of them had said how long they had been up or why they had been up before sunrise, but Mordred assumed it was nothing kind.

“When Bors said,” Lancelot's voice was broken, had been broken well before he had began to speak, “I hoped beyond hope but did not believe...”

“I am here,” Galahad's voice was not much beyond a squeak, “I am real.”

The last part sounded more as if Galahad said it for his own benefit than for Lancelot. Mordred made a mental note to assure Galahad as often as he could that he was very much real and here without becoming intrusive about it.

Mordred heard Gawain's boots crunching against the gravel before he saw Gawain move, but his brother's normal self-assured expression was gone, one much closer to haunted having replaced it. Mordred thought for a moment Gawain might not entirely believe what he was seeing – Mordred certainly hadn't believed it at first, when the Grail Trio has showed up at the door in the middle of the night.

Gawain came to a stop in front of his car and used the hood as a sort-of seat, then no one else moved, just watched the father-son pair embrace, their tears either politely ignored or otherwise excused.

Kay and Bedivere joined them at a run, clearly winded but their strides strong and without fault as they came to a near-sliding stop in the gravel.

“Told you it was Gawain,” Bedivere had his hands on top of his head. He was panting for air even as he spoke.

Mordred figured they had been running since the

“At least he didn't hit the porch this time,” Kay was less winded, but that wasn't saying much, “Ah, Lancelot, that's what this is about.”

That seemed to brake the trance that had settled over their porch and driveway. Lancelot and Galahad both turned to look towards Kay, their faces blotchy and eyes red.

They were eight, now, all but Arthur standing in front of Kay's small farmhouse doing their best to act like this was all normal, all supposed to happen when in fact Galahad had, indeed, been cast out of heaven itself for round two of a destiny that he did not ask for.

Lancelot looked at Kay as if he was about to ask him in particular all the questions bottlenecking in the back of his throat but decided against it at the last possible second and instead said, “Thank you.”

“Thank Bors,” Kay said, “and Percival.”

Lancelot looked to the two men Kay had just named and before any more words could get out, Bors and Percival launched into a disjointed, awkward recount of what stopped them from going home from midnight Pentecost service.

It was a fitting day for Galahad to return to them, Mordred thought, Pentecost. He had never been Christian, having found the faith too forced the first time and too hostile this time, but he was familiar with the days the faith held holy and could pray with the rest of them when he absolutely needed to. Still, that Galahad should come down from whatever Heaven was to join this modern Camelot in its early stages was so strikingly akin to the Holy Spirit coming to the lost and newly alone that Mordred found a flicker of hope coming to life that from this moment things may begin to take a form he could recognize.

Galahad was back in Percival's arms, an uncharacteristically steadfast, protective affect surrounding Percival as he held Galahad tight. Galahad's one arm was curled around Percival's arms while his other held Lancelot's hand so tightly that Mordred wondered if Lancelot's fingers would be bruised later. Lancelot did not seem to object or even noticed the crushing force, thought, so Mordred decided to remain a bystander in whatever was unfolding at the bottom of the short porch steps.

It was Kay who broke the silence that settled: “So uh, I am going to go finish feeding the animals, please feel free to feed yourselves. Bors, make sure no one tries to feed Galahad anything that's going to wind up redesigning my carpets.”

Mordred had heard of how poorly his own father had taken to modern food at first – not that his father had not tried to eat anything and everything, but that the foods and additives were too harsh on a stomach only used to foods that were, for the most part, either extinct or forced to evolve so much they could no longer be considered the same thing even if they – proverbially – wore the same name tag.

It did not surprise him that Kay had addressed Bors for that particular request. If anyone could get Lancelot and Gawain to avoid trying to be helpful but accomplishing only chaos without anyone getting their feeling hurt in an arena where feelings had no room to begin with, it would be Bors.

“Unless anyone's starving I think we can wait until lunch,” Lancelot's words were unsteady things.

“At least get in the house,” Kay made a short series of waving motions in the general direction of Mordred and the doorway, “sit, make some tea, catch up in a home environment or at least somewhere more comfortable.”

That seemed to get everyone moving. Mordred noticed, though, that Gawain followed Kay and Bedivere out to the fields instead of joining everyone else instead. Mordred did his best not to let it hurt or even sting, let the vicarious tearful joy going on take the place of any hurt feelings.

There was family to be found here, even if it was not of his own blood, and he would hold onto that instead of bitterness.


	5. Interlude: A Matter of Gawain

Bedivere tried to be as patient as Kay while Gawain trailed behind them, technically silent save his footfalls, but his anger so unrestrained that Bedivere wished he would scream or _something_ to start clearing the air.

That was one of the things that had changed – Kay used to be the one with no patience, the one always a moment away from snapping at someone in the name of getting things **moving** , but now Kay's patience seemingly endless, his compassion a surface thing rather than buried under so much hurt and anger that, in the very beginning of their relationship, Bedivere had worried Kay may never care as deeply about Bedivere as Kay cared about his work.

His worried had been more than unfounded, though, and Kay cared more about and for Bedivere than Bedivere did for himself most days, but only in private. They both worried about someone deciding their closeness to each other and the King was a weakness to be exploited, and for years they only loved in shadows and moment so fleeting they barely existed at all until one night, on the eve of battle, Kay took Bedivere to his tent. It had been a fear of death that removed their fears of exploitation.

And so, this life, when he say Kay and Kay saw him, _recognized him_ , and embraced him in the middle of a crowded city street with tears in his eyes, Bedivere knew things were going to be different – the good kind of different – this time around.

The memory gave him a few minutes' reprieve from Gawain's silent rage that followed him and Kay both for the last of their chores.

Still, when Bedivere handed Gawain one of the feed buckets for the chickens, Gawain started feeding the birds without needing to be told what to do.

“I'm thinking the red one,” Kay pointed at one of the red hens they had, “maybe the white one about three birds down from her.”

Bedivere looked at the birds in question.

“Red one sure,” Bedivere agreed, “but the white one? She's a bit too old to taste good.”

“Fair,” Kay shrugged, “Who would you suggest, then?”

“The little red one,” Bedivere indicated with a nod, “She's old enough now, still young enough to be tender.”

Gawain shuddered and looked at the birds in question. Bedivere noticed how distraught Gawain seemed. Gawain, who used to be among the top hunters, who would stay out in freezing conditions to prepare a stag for the fire.

Something was more than just angering Gawain – something was _wrong_.

“Why them?” Gawain finally said something.

“Red number one is the right size and age,” Kay said plainly, “and red number two is a bit younger than I usually take them to the butchering block, but Bedivere's right – she's perfect tasting age.”

All their animals would be food one day, but that didn't mean they weren't given the best possible care while they were alive. Bedivere knew there were people who preferred a wide gap between their food and their food's previous life, but he had never been among them. 

“It's different, when you see them a lot,” Gawain walked over the the smaller red one and crouched down, “They're not strangers in the wood who happen to be on the other end of your bow.”

“I know what they've been exposed to,” Kay countered, “I know exactly what's gone into them, if they've been sick, hell, how stressed they've been.”

“What happens to the ones you can't eat?” Gawain stood up, “If they've been sick or something?”

“Depends on why they're no longer food animals,” Kay said as he scattered his feed bucket in one smooth movement. There was a flurry of wings and chicken war cries as they all went to the feed, the feed Gawain and Bedivere had been throwing out suddenly much less interesting.

Kay took two measured steps back and looked beyond the chicken tornado to one hen far back from the others, seemingly uninterested in anything around her.

“That one's Maisey,” Kay pointed at the lone chicken, “she's old, deaf, but she laid eggs almost her entire life. She gets to retire in peace, or at least gets to live out her retirement until suffering sets in, then it's mercy's turn.”

Gawain seemed even more distraught, his jaw clearly grinding and his eyes narrowing.

“I can come get them later if it makes you feel better,” Kay offered.

Gawain made a frustrated noise that was not loud enough to be honest in reflecting whatever was going on in his head.

Kay started walking towards the goats' pen for the last water check of the morning. Bedivere made sure Gawain was following before he followed, too.

The goats' water was fine – they had checked it before Gawain arrived with Lancelot in tow, the speeds too fast for the narrow country roads and Arthur nowhere in sight. This was, Bedivere knew, Kay giving Gawain a chance to say something else, to explode before he imploded, or at least do one of those things in the middle of a field rather than in the house, in front of everyone else.

“He woke me up, you know,” Gawain finally said when they were near halfway across the field, “Lancelot, I mean, going on about how his son was at yours and Arthur did not want to _tarnish their reunion_ by fighting with Mordred again, as if Arthur has no control over himself.”

“I don't think he does, really,” Kay said so effortlessly that Bedivere could hear the rest of the fight leave Gawain in a rush of breath.

“I'm going to be useless one day, too,” Gawain cast a glance back in the general direction of the chicken coop, “There's an entire generation younger than me, at least in spirit, showing up so quickly, one after another, and I've done, what? Been Arthur's call when he's afraid of his son – of my own damned _brother_ – and otherwise forgotten unless everyone gets called or emailed or texted anyways?”

Kay stopped walking, such a deliberate ceasing of action that Gawain and Bedivere froze, too.

“That,” Kay's voice sent a chill down Bedivere's spine that reached so deep there was a moment he worried he might never know warmth again despite not even being the one Kay was addressing, “is your choice. Not Arthur's. Not mine. Not Galahad's. Not even destiny itself. You, Gawain, decide when you are done being someone who matters.”

Gawain's jaw fell open and Kay put a hand on Gawain's shoulder. Bedivere took that as his cue to put a hand on Gawain's shoulder.

“Is it reversible?” Gawain's voice was a cracked thing that might yet shatter entirely, “Can I matter again?”

“That is also your choice,” a small smile tugged at the corners of Kay's mouth and disappeared. Bedivere knew that smile, the one that was a memory before it happened, the one that screamed Kay had demons he would never let out to see the light of day nor dark of night. Not for the first time, Bedivere wondered what Kay had endured over the centuries, alone and waiting, but knew better than to ask.

Gawain nodded despite being no closer to understanding how to make such a choice and the three of them walked back to the house in a much easier silence, Gawain's anger having shifted into a more wounded, frightened thing, skittish instead of fueled by a rage that had no name to call its own.

Kay was first in the house, everyone crowded in the living room. Lancelot, Galahad, and Percival were all perched in front of the fireplace, a small yet steady fire burning behind them. Mordred was on the loveseat and Bors was seated on one of the couch. There seemed to be a tense peace settled over them.

“I take it no one's eaten,” Kay looked over the group. When no one answered, Kay shrugged and headed to the kitchen.

Gawain took a seat next to Mordred, a tired thing. Mordred seemed indecisive for a fraction of a moment, as if he might move, or as if Gawain might not have come in peace entirely. When Mordred did not bolt or otherwise move from his seat, Gawain settled back. Satisfied there would be no fight, at least for the moment, Bedivere joined Kay in the process of fixing some sort of warm food for everyone.

There were nine bowls in a stack by the stovetop already, and Bedivere realized Kay knew Arthur was nearby. Whether instinct or a sense he'd gotten in exchange for becoming Camelot's immortal gatekeeper Bedivere had yet to be able to tell.

Bedivere hoped whatever peace had settled over the living room was strong enough to not shatter the instant Arthur entered their home.


	6. A King Without a Crown

There was nothing in this world or the worlds adjacent that could have prepared Kay for Galahad punching Arthur in the face.

“Oh no,” Galahad immediately took half a step back and covered his mouth with his hands, “Oh, oh no, that's blood, but also you did send so, so many children to their death by ship or by war, oh that looks like it hurts more than my fist, and how weak do you have to be to let a wizard who let your father rape your mother use you like a puppet because destiny scares you? Oh, oh dear, Kay, there's blood on the carpet.”

Despite himself, despite the situation, despite centuries waiting for Camelot to return that shaped him into more god than man, Kay laughed. It started as something that might have slipped out, may have been forgivable had it not turned into a free, unrestrained thing in short order.

“The carpet's seen worse,” Kay said between peels of laughter, “And, Art, you deserved that.”

“I think I deserve worse than this,” Arthur sounded resigned as he pinched the bridge of this nose and looked up at the ceiling. Kay tugged at Arthur's elbow to get him over the tile instead of the carpet.

“Stay there,” Kay told him, “and for gods' sakes, head forward. Get a stomach full of blood and you won't have room for breakfast.”

Arthur listened, head forward and blood trickling out and onto the tile.

Kay returned to the kitchen as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Everyone else – save Bedivere, who was fetching carpet cleaner and a mop – froze, time seeming to have kept the moment in suspended animation, Galahad's previously unknown rage and speed the catalyst rather than Arthur's blood all over the place.

Percival was first to move, gently removing one of Galahad's hands from where it covered his mouth so he could hold it, then use it to pull Galahad into him, both of their eyes fixed on Arthur, whose eyes were closed.

Bedivere cleaned the carpet first, then the tile. Once the floors were clean and Arthur had stopped bleeding, Bedivere brought out what looked like puppy training pads and set them around Arthur's feet.

“Alright,” Bedivere tilted Arthur's head so they were face-to-face with each other, “hands behind your back, hold one wrist, I'm going to reset your nose.”

Arthur let out a whimper and let Bedivere shove a pen longways between his teeth, a low-budget bite bar that may or may not survive the next minute or so.

Bedivere signed and with a _**crack**_ Arthur's nose was straight again, a bit of blood coming out with a horrifying force and then nothing. Arthur let out a strangled, pained cry but did not bite through the pen.

“There,” Bedivere took a step back, “it'll heal straight if you manage not to get punched for the next two weeks. Or hit it on anything, really.”

Arthur made another sound, a garbled one that seemed to not do whatever job Arthur had tried to will it to do.

In the kitchen, Kay minded the onions he was trying to caramelize as if his foster-brother was not in any sort of distress, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary happening in his home. With one hand on the wooded spoon he was using to stir and one hand on a paring knife, he sliced the first bell pepper into rings.

“That's horrifying,” Bedivere informed Kay as he threw away the bloody training pads, “If you have another hand it would be doing its own task, too.”

“Practice,” Kay said effortlessly, “Galahad, got it all out of your system?”

“I,” Galahad sounded as if terror might overtake him at any given moment, “yeah. Yes. Yes, I do, Sir.”

“Cut that,” Kay snapped, “Art, are you done making yourself feel even worse.”

“Probably not,” Arthur managed. The pain he was in was so, so obvious in his words and tone.

“Well you're not getting breakfast until you're done sulking,” Kay informed him, “you know where the painkillers are.”

Arthur headed back down the house's singular hallway as everyone watched soundlessly.

“So uh,” Mordred broke the shocked silence, “what's for breakfast?”

Kay let out a sadder laugh and did not answer.

“Scramble bowls,” Bedivere answered for Kay, “with caramelized onions and peppers, and sausage crumbles for those of you that eat meat.”

“What?” Galahad asked.

Kay handed the spoon to Bedivere so he could look at Galahad.

“It may be too unfamiliar for your system so if you feel sick or overwhelmed please, let me know and we can find you something else,” Kay told Galahad. It was almost a plea.

“What do you mean?” Galahad asked, “The eggs this morning were fine?”

“There's a lot more in these,” Kay told him, “There are more foods and drinks and spices in today's world than we could have even tried to dream of...then.”

“And they are,” Arthur seemed in substantially less pain as he re-emerged, “definitely different, when it comes to how you digest them.”

“You are nothing but Doritos for a week,” Kay rolled his eyes and returned to the kitchen, “Nobody can eat Doritos for a week and come out the other end okay.”

There were layers in Kay's retort that no one dared to explore. Instead, Galahad mouthed _Doritos_ a few times as if he could uncover the mysteries of this apparently forbidden food his Once-King had tried to sustain himself on.

Arthur looked around the living room and decided to sit on the couch next to Bors. He looked tired, but it was the type of tired sleep wouldn't fix. Mordred just looked shocked, eyes flitting between his father and Galahad.

Galahad let Percival lead him back to the edge of the fireplace, the fire still going strong but in need to another log. Nobody put one on.

“Alright,” Kay said after several minutes of uncomfortable silence, “everyone come make your scramble bowls, remember to leave enough for everyone else or I will personally eat your food.”

It was not an empty threat.

He would, he figured, deal with his foster-brother's behavior after everyone had eaten.


	7. Come Back for You

The day had worn on slowly – Kay and Bedivere were in and out of the house as they tended to their farm and made sure there had been no more bleeding on their carpets. Everyone else had stayed despite Gawain looking very much like he wanted to leave, and in turn leave Lancelot to his own devices should Arthur and Mordred have another fight that resulted in being unable to do so much as look at each other for the coming weeks.

Galahad and Percival had managed to remain close to each other, save crucial moments where one would want to be entirely alone, all day. Since Mordred had woken up, he had not seen them more than an arm's length from the other.

Well, there were a matter of seconds where Galahad punched Mordred's father in the face, but in the span of a day there are rare times when seconds seem to count for anything.

Galahad did not seem to take poorly to the food Kay served, despite how many time Kay assured the angel-stolen Knight it would be no offense or slight should he need to stop eating or if he was sick. Arthur, from what few stories Mordred had gathered from the Once-King's return from Avalon, had initially taken very poorly to the modern world at first. From food to language to technology, Arthur had to skip ahead fifteen centuries from when he'd died on the battle field Camlann had become in their last hours. He had, though, come into this era younger than when he'd died.

Galahad, though, did not seem to be struggling with language and did not seem phased with how different this world was, did not seem bothered by the sounds and smells and much richer food. Mordred had never been close to Galahad, had never memorized his face or mannerisms, did not know who he was under his armor and destiny. And as such, he did not know if his closeness with Percival was just _how they were_ when they were not being weighed down by their titles with even more weight than their armor.

It seemed, as far as Mordred could tell with what little time and information both he'd gained, that where Avalon gave Arthur years back for his second chance, the angels had given Galahad just enough knowledge to survive. Even as the evening marched on into the night, the constant, inescapable light did not seem to so much as phase the Grail Knight.

That, or the Knight whose life and legacy were so virtuous heaven itself found him worthy of becoming one of their own was actually in shock from the whole _getting hit by a car_ thing. Seriously, had anyone looked at that?

“What is that,” Galahad pointed at Percival's phone screen, then made a small surprised noise and withdrew his finger.

“Uh,” Percival scrolled a little, “This?”

“Yeah,” Galahad kept his fingers to himself.

“That's the Tower of London,” Percival told him.

“No it isn't,” Galahad said like it was obvious.

“It was built about five hundred years after,” Percival paused and the arm he had wrapped around Galahad tightened, “well, after.”

“And it's still standing?” Galahad tilted his head sideways. He reminded Mordred a bit of a puppy trying to engage a porcupine in play – curious and unaware of the horrors the thing he was so interested in held.

“It's,” Percival seemed at a loss for words, “I've never really thought about how long it's been standing.”

“Just stack a bunch of stones together and they tend to stay standing,” Lancelot said from the fireplace's brick threshold. He was only marginally helpful judging by how Galahad only tilted his head in the other direction.

“How long?” Galahad asked.

“Uh,” Bors pulled out his phone, “hold on, let me look it up.”

“I want to see,” Galahad announced. He tapped Percival's arm twice and Percival let the smaller man up. 

Galahad cross the the living room and came to a stop by Bors. He leaned over so he could see Bors' screen. It would have been upside-down, but Galahad seemed unbothered. Bors held his phone out and up a little more so Galahad could see easier.

“Looks like there are a few that would have been about four thousand years old when we were new,” he said the last word like he wished he'd picked another one as it left his mouth.

“Whoa,” Galahad sounded impressed.

“What?” Bedivere asked from where he and Kay were cleaning the last of Arthur's blood out of the carpet.

“Yeah, the farms and stuff,” Kay seemed like he was talking more to Bedivere than anyone in the living room, “most of the oldest stuff is in Scotland.”

“Of course it is,” Gawain said under his breath. The eldest of the Orkney brothers – still the eldest, but it was only the two of them now – had been born in America and would periodically mention how he never wanted to get anywhere near the – and Mordred could quote Gawain's exact words on the subject – _gods-forsaken islands that had the audacity to spit me out into this world._

“I want to see them,” Galahad decided without hesitation, “I want to touch them.”

“The people who oversee them aren't so keen on the touching part,” Kay informed Galahad, “but the seeing is absolutely an option.”

Galahad's face lit up, such a hopeful thing that it reminded Mordred of innocence. He knew, though, that any innocence Galahad had first carried into Camelot had to have been worn away by war and loss and hunger and everything else that Camelot forced onto the souls of those who acted as her champions and ambassadors. 

“I want to see everything,” Galahad's voice was so full of wonder it made Mordred's heart ache for what might happen when Galahad realized what humanity had come to, what destruction they were living through, how the cost of human progress had only grown exponentially with every age despite having every ability to lessen it.

“You make a bunch of trips about it,” Kay suggested, “No better way to familiarize yourself with the world than to experience it with a bit of forethought.”

“That feels like a targeted caveat,” Percival said.

“It absolutely is,” Arthur was looking at Galahad as he said it. Galahad seemed oblivious to his Once-King's attention.

There was a tension that snapped through the room rather than settled, accompanied by an uneasy silence that waited to be shatter by someone's anger, someone's accusations.

“We could have done better by you,” Lancelot, seated in the middle of the room so he did not have to pick between his son and his King, “I could have done better by you.”

“We can always do better,” Galahad had curled up against Percival again, “It's the human condition.”

And, gods below, Mordred wished that was the worst of the human condition.

There had been a confession in Lancelot's two sentences, though, one that spoke volumes of the Once-Champion's loyalty as well as fears and regrets, that screamed of how, should Arthur – and by extension Camelot – fail a second time for whatever it was they were destined for, Lancelot would hold himself responsible.

“Make a list,” Arthur suggested, “of what you want to experience, first, and then the places and things that will let you experience that.”

Galahad looked at Arthur for the first time since Arthur had disappeared into the back of the house that morning, brows just slightly furrowed, head tilted but the puppy-like quality gone. Percival's arm seemed loose around Galahad in case the younger Knight decided violence was the proper reaction twice in the same day.

“Percival,” Bedivere had the awareness to redirect everyone, “your summer break is soon, yeah?”

“Yes,” Percival's reply seemed too formal for the conversation.

“Why don't you make a summer of it?” Bedivere suggested.

“Just a summer?” Galahad seemed disappointed.

“Uni,” Percival told him. When Galahad did not show any signs of understanding, Percival added: “It's the last stages of my schooling.”

“I want to go to school,” Galahad said so quickly it seemed more a reflex than anything with thought behind it.

Percival held Galahad in a tighter grip again, seeming to be assured Galahad would not take personal offense from the Once-King again – or at least not in a way that would wind up in a repeat of the morning.

Mordred would admit, only to himself and never aloud, that there was catharsis to be found in Galahad rattling off a list of Arthur's sins as Arthur bled from the physical blow that preceded the list. More than Camlann, that single minute brought Mordred a sense of validation. His own father had been weak and corrupt and did not deserve to be the one who shepherded in Camelot's halcyon days. It had been these shortcomings, Mordred always thought, that lead the angels to steal Galahad from the world of mortals. It had been Arthur's shortcomings as both man and King that caused Galahad to be taken to a place where what the youngest among them had been forced to shoulder would be properly appreciated.

If the angels had returned Galahad to them, there was not hope that this time would be different – there was a Faith granted by beings older than mankind itself who kept Galahad alive and in a condition to return to the people he had called home. These beings, either in spite of or because of their infinite understanding of the universe itself, had lent their Faith to Galahad despite the faults of those he surrounded himself with.

And where there was Faith, there might be forgiveness.

With that realization, Mordred realized how much he hoped Galahad could see everything, touch everything, experience everything possible. He hoped there was enough kindness left in the world that it would find Galahad where ever he found himself.

“You can stay here,” Bedivere was saying as Mordred realized he had been thinking so loudly he'd missed some of the conversation, “Kay and I can make ourselves scarce and you two can take the bedroom.”

“Are you sure?” Galahad asked at the same time Percival said, “But I have class.”

“Your classes are equidistant from here as they are from mine,” Bors pointed out.

“Positive,” Kay said as he rose to his feet, “We can take a holiday somewhere with room service that serves breakfast until eleven and their pancakes comes with those personal-size bottles of maple syrup.”

“Uhm,” Percival looked around, “Yeah, that would be nice. Thank you.”

Kay had a look in his eyes as if he already knew where their holiday was going to be. Bedivere, for his part, seemed pleased with this surprise holiday Kay had landed on.

Their bond had not change despite Bedivere's long absence during Kay's immortality. Mordred heard them speak of it in whispers, kept their secrets they hid from even their Once-King, wondered often how Kay had kept his love for Bedivere alive for so long.

“We'll have to go back to mine to get your car,” Bors pointed out, “but the farm is much more of a central location.”

“What about you, Mordred?” Galahad asked, “We won't bother you?”

Mordred almost laughed. “No,” he assured him, “You two will be fine here.”

“We could,” Gawain spoke so suddenly even he seemed surprised, “Lancelot, Arthur, and I, two of us could go get your car if you would rather stay put.”

Percival looked simultaneously relieved by Gawain's offer and worried for his car.

There was some unraveling of conversation from there are vehicular logistics were discussed and Kay and Bedivere announced they needed to get to sleep. There was a shift, then, an unstated decision to depart for the night.

“I, uh,” Arthur rose slowly, as if one of his legs had fallen asleep, “Lance and I can go get your car.”

“Thank you,” Percival remained on the loveseat with Galahad.

“You'll come back, right?” Galahad was asking Lancelot more than he was asking it as a general question, “Like, not just to drop the car off, but actually come back?”

“Of course I will,” Lancelot promised, “I will come back.”

There was an unspoken _for you,_ at the end of his promise that caused jealousy to flare in the pit of Mordred's stomach, made Mordred wish he had a father who loved him as a son. 

Lancelot moved to kneel in front of Galahad and put his temple against his son's knee. “I could have done a lot better for you, too.”

“You did your best,” Galahad said it like he meant it, “You did all that you knew how to do.”

“I want to do better this time,” Lancelot said, “More than just better, what I know how. I want to learn.”

“You will,” Galahad was not delivering platitudes for the sake of keeping the peace.

Lancelot made an undecipherable sound and rose to his feet again. “I have to leave now if I want to get your car back and get to bed before I'm asleep at the wheel.”

Galahad nodded but did not rise from the couch.

“I'll leave the door unlocked,” Mordred told Arthur and Lancelot but he was looking at Gawain, “so you can come in.”

“Thanks,” Lancelot nodded. He left with Arthur, his hand on the small of his Once-King's back.

Mordred had long given up trying to decipher what they were to each other beyond their titles.

“I will lead you,” Bors said as he rose to his feet, “Galahad, Percival, will you two be alright here until tomorrow night? I need to go to work in the morning.”

Galahad and Percival offered twin nods and it felt like it was fifteen hundred years ago, the Grail Trio's synchronicity and quiet understanding of each other already come back to life.

Gawain stayed after the three of them had left, neither fully there or fully committed to going.

“Where will you two be sleeping?” Gawain asked Percival and Mordred, “Tonight, I mean.”

“Probably here,” Galahad said with a small yawn, “'S where we slept last night.”

“Is it comfortable?” Gawain seemed unconvinced that was the best place to sleep.

“Like no bed I've ever slept on,” Mordred answered for them, “They really went all-out on their furniture.”

“Huh,” Gawain seemed less unconvinced, but still not entirely convinced.

Mordred realized that he had never seen Gawain sit on anything but the floor.

“Come sit,” Mordred patted the couch beside him. Gawain seemed to hesitate for a moment before he took Mordred up on the suggestion.

“Oh,” Gawain's surprise was an free thing, not schooled or otherwise tempered, “Okay, yeah, this is. Wow.”

Mordred let a small chuckle escape. Gawain went to shove Mordred with his shoulder and Mordred flinched away. Instead of lean over further to be sure Mordred was jostled, Gawain stopped and pulled back. Mordred had braced himself but when the shove didn't come, he looked over to Gawain carefully.

Mordred, very slowly and very gently, gave Gawain such a small shove with his own shoulder that it might have been a lean. Gawain let out a sound that passed as laughter and returned it with equally gentle pressure.

“I see why you never want to stay at mine,” Gawain told him, “I might as well have a brick couch in comparison.”

Mordred laughed in earnest this time, a contagious sort of sound that soon had Gawain, Percival, and Galahad laughing as well. The laughter shifted into the type of laughter that happens for the same of the sound and the joy it brought, however brief.

Tonight, Mordred knew, was one of those nights he would look back on as one of the nights that altered the course of his entire life.

He welcomed it.


	8. Bridging Lives

Sometimes, all it took for the world to change was a moment. Percival knew this, objectively, had even heard about moments that changed the world. The Hindenburg disaster, a number of assassinations across time and space, the atomic bomb dropped not once but twice.

He'd thought Bors hitting _Galahad_ with his car would have been one of those moments, but it was not. That was shock, something so impossible he had not dared entertain it so suddenly _right there_ while Bors brought the fallout to Kay and Bedivere, two men he'd barely known the first life and still felt there were secrets that were not to be told, at least not to him, not this life.

But no, the moment Percival realized his entire world had changed came days later, while he was feeding the chickens with Mordred and Galahad.

“They look so different,” Galahad said as he scattered a bucket of feed. The chickens flocked to the feed and Galahad yelped and skittered away from the flock's rush for breakfast. “They don't act any different, though.”

And there it was, a merging of two worlds that despite sharing the same ground could not have been more different earths, the chickens' primal need for food with not much else going through their tiny avian brains acting as a link between his first life and this one.

Kay and Bedivere had seemed almost too eager to leave the three of them to the farm. It was their second day managing the animals by themselves, and Percival was still unsure how many types of animals the farm contained, nonetheless the full count of critters depended on them to ensure all their basic needs were met.

Mordred, thankfully, seemed to be familiar with the animals and the routines that surrounded them. Percival contented himself with following Mordred around every morning, sometimes before the sun's light was barely a promise on the horizon, and grabbing buckets and scoops and water pails and hoses as they came across them and applying them to the appropriate area.

“So Mordred,” Galahad broke Percival's internal monologue, “I feel like I might have asked already, but how long have you, uh, been living on the farm?”

Mordred chuckled, a much more gentle thing than Percival had expected. “Off and on since I remembered, so about two years now?” he answered, “Uncle Kay is a lot warmer this time, and a lot less protective of his space.”

Percival had heard but not experienced how fierce Kay and Bedivere had been over their quarters at Camelot, how not even King Arthur himself dared to disturb the space the couple had claimed. To be sleeping in their bed with full access to their house and farm seemed such a far cry from who they had been.

“They are kind,” Percival wanted to contribute to the conversation, “and still very confusing.”

Mordred nodded. “I still have no idea when they met or how long ago it was.”

“There's so much I do not know,” Galahad was looking at the horizon as if it may have answers to questions he had not said aloud, “and so much I do not know how to even begin asking after.”

“I mean, me, too,” Percival offered, “The world is so connected and everything in existence is pretty much at my fingertips.” He took his phone out of his pocket for emphasis and twirled it around a few times.

“A lot of it's wrong,” Mordred wrinkled his nose, “About us, about Camelot especially.”

“Makes sense,” Galahad said so effortlessly that Percival felt a spike of jealousy try to strike his heart, “The sacred things, I imagine history wouldn't have let them be.”

Percival followed that thought to its logical conclusion – that people in power would forever be using God's will and wishes to further their own agenda – and heard himself ask, “What did the Angels show you?” before he was aware he'd said it.

“Everything, I think,” Galahad tilted his head but did not break his stare at the horizon, “They froze me, almost as soon as they'd finished carrying me to their world, told me I would understand later and then encased me in holy fire, then shoved enough to survive in the world we're in now before losing me from the Heavens.”

“Holy fire,” Percival let the words roll around on his tongue and in his head, “You've spent this entire time encased in the Holy Spirit?”

“That sounds right,” Galahad's shoulders dropped, “They told me I was needed here, but I'm so lost that I do not know if I could help even if I knew what it was I am needed for.”

Percival opened his mouth to speak but then thought better of it. He thought back to the quest for the Grail, remembered how painful the seeking part had been – not in body but in spirit – and let silence settle in while Mordred began walking towards where the goats were kept.

The silence was familiar, neither comfortable or anxiety-inducing, and it let Percival reflect on how clear their mission and purpose for living had been the first time.

Give up all Earthly desires so that God and His teachings had all the room their hearts and minds could offer.

Find the Grail, the symbol of Heaven's delights, show the world how much there was to gain through living with only what they needed. That there were no steps beyond that perhaps should have cued him in to there being no _after_ , not for them. Through sacrifice and faith they had fulfilled their collective destiny, but what about this time? How was he supposed to find his way in the world with no prophecy, no Heavenly dictations to illuminate the Path he was to walk?

In a world that thus far had only shown him how little he understood what it meant for God to be infinite, how was he to find his way?

“I think I'm just going to scatter their feed,” Mordred announced once they'd reached the edge of the goats' enclosure, “Cocoa looks like she wants a fight and my kneecaps can only take so much.”

“Which one's Cocoa?” Galahad asked, leaning his forearms on the top of the gate.

“The brown one with the pool noodles on her horns,” Mordred pointed his chin at the goat in question, “Unless either of you wants to find out why she's got the pool noodles.”

“I'm good,” Percival decided. Galahad took a step back from the gate, then several more. Percival put a gentle hand on Galahad's shoulders the moment he was in reach and Galahad curled against Percival as if acting on instinct.

Mordred chuckled again and went off to get the goat feed.

“It'll be alright, yeah?” Galahad asked Percival, his voice so quiet Percival knew Galahad was afraid.

“Yeah,” Percival tried to reassure the both of them, “We'll figure it out.”

And, perhaps, that was it: there was a world wider than their legacy in front of them, and it was theirs to _choose_ in ways fate had left them blind to their first life.

Galahad made a pleased noise and leaned his head on Percival's shoulder.

“We'll figure it out,” Percival repeated, more sure this time.

They'd figure it out.


	9. Interlude: We're All Just Walking Each Other Home

Kay sighed and put his head down on the table, one cheek on the cool glass and the the other pointing at the endless skies above him.

“You're going to have the weirdest tan line,” Bedivere informed him.

“Won't be the first time,” Kay almost chuckled, “I'll get up when my drinks come.”

Bedivere mumbled something that sounded like, 'it's the plural there that worries me,' but neither of them pressed it.

Kay stayed there, eyes closed, taking in the sounds of the waves breaking on the shores and the distant call of birds whose names he'd told himself hundreds of times he'd get around to learning but never did. Bedivere kept one eye on Kay and one eye out for their drinks.

“Out of everywhere,” a familiar voice came closer to them, “you chose Aruba.”

“Dinadan,” Bedivere greeting him, “what a pleasant surprise.”

Dinadan laughed, a mocking thing.

“You swore,” Dinadan sounded on the verge of hysterics, “you _promised_ you wouldn't use my booking agency unless it was time, Kay.”

“I keep my promises,” Kay muttered, head still very much on the table, “Did you bring the drinks at least?”

“That bad?” Dinadan sounded defeated, “Tell me honestly, Kay, _is it that bad?_ ”

“I don't know,” Kay finally shifted so his chin was on the table and his eyes were in the general direction of Dinadan, “but Bors hit Galahad with his car because Heaven dropped Galahad into the middle of that particular road.”

Dinadan made a strangled sound that might have been laughter had this conversation happened the previous lifetime.

“Galahad's fine,” Bedivere almost rushed to say, “Galahad, Percival, and Mordred are at the farm house.”

“So you're here,” Dinadan made no effort to hide how much he wanted them gone, how badly he wanted this whole thing to be a dream so he could wake up and go back to his life as he'd known it.

“You don't have to come back,” Kay said plainly, “I promised I'd come find you again once Galahad and Arthur were both returned. I've done that.”

“You say that like I have a choice,” Dinadan snarled, “You're sure it's Galahad?”

“It's like he was frozen in time,” Kay sat up without moving his line of sight much, “The exact same Galahad we sent off on that fucking quest.”

Dinadan made a displeased noise and rested his elbows on the table. “Exact same?”

“Can't say I knew him well enough to vouch for every scar being in place,” Kay's voice was exhausted, “but yeah.”

There was a moment of silence where the weight of the failed rally even Bedivere did not try to bring up with Kay threatened to crush them all into dust. There was nothing to say, nothing that could undo the pain they had all experienced, nothing that could make the war they hoped would end wars and end the need to Arthur to return would cease to exist.

Bedivere remembered watching his brothers-in-arms bleeding out, screaming in a rage-filled grief that even the machines that gave people no chance to an equal fight roared overhead. It was so there, so real that when Dinadan shattered the silence, Bedivere flinched.

“What good will it do?” Dinadan ran his hands through his hair, “There's no uniting the lands, no saving the world, no...whatever it is we're supposed to do,” his voice grew louder with each word, “Is it going to be worth it, Kay? Leaving my life behind again?”

“Hell if I know,” Kay was getting irritated, “I know when you come back and when your memories start to settle in and that's it!,” Kay rose to his feet with so much force his chair fell backwards, “I am not here to tell you what your life is worth when weighed against your destiny!” Kay was yelling, his voice so loud that Bedivere wondered if anyone could hear Kay despite their isolation, “If you want to pretend like we're just a couple of tourists and go home to whatever or whoever you have waiting, then fine! Do that!”

“Kay,” Bedivere's voice was quiet but steady, “Take a walk on the beach and think about what you just did.”

Kay let out a breath that sounded like he wanted to argue once he finished exhaling, but turned on his heels and walked off in the general direction of the beach.

“I'm going to walk the other direction,” Dinadan informed Bedivere before rising much more carefully and marching more than walking off.

Bedivere sighed and let his head fall backwards, eyes closed and face pointed at the sky. He heard the poor waiter put five glasses down on the glass table, the glass-on-glass sound an uncomfortable one. Two alcoholic drinks for Kay, should he return before they were too hot to drink, one for himself, and a glass of water for each of them.

Immortality did not mean hangovers did not happen.

“Thank you,” Bedivere said without opening his eyes.

“Sorry about the wait,” a voice Bedivere knew too well replied.

“Palamedes,” Bedivere's eyes flew open and the sun blinded him. He sat up so quickly and with so much force that the world around him spun for a nauseating moment, “You're here, too.” 

“I am here,” Palamedes sat down next to Bedivere, “I had a feeling it would go about that well.”

That it was Palamedes who Bedivere watched bleed out went unsaid.

“He wasn't the same without you,” Bedivere wasn't sure why he was telling Palamedes this, “and he resented me for years for being the one to see you to the other side.”

“Seeing him again this time,” Palamedes shook his head, a sad thing interlacing with something much newer, something much happier, “it was like the world froze and every fiber that's woven together to form the universe came together over him.”

Bedivere offered a small smile. “I can imagine.”

“What about you?” Palamedes wanted to know, “What was it like, seeing him again this time?”

There was a pause before Bedivere answered that told Palamedes everything he needed to know.

“All this time?” Palamedes' eyes went wide, “You stayed?”

“Kay didn't want me to, at first,” Bedivere nodded, “Eternity is its own form of torture and he'd suffered alone for so long. He feared I would regret the pain I was signing up for.”

“But?” Palamedes prompted.

“It's been worth it,” Bedivere finally took his drink into his hands, “If I'd known who he really was, what he needed to do, I...” His words trailed off, the truth unable to filter through every regret Bedivere had ever held onto floating to the surface.

“Is it easier?” Palamedes asked, “Not being alone, does it make whatever destiny we cannot avoid easier?”

“Yes,” Bedivere did not hesitate.

They sat there, Bedivere sipping his drink and Palamedes sipping one of Kay's. They settled on watching waves crash onto the sand, the force of the ocean bowing before the land. 

It would not always be that way, Bedivere knew. There would be times the ocean would drown the land, times where water and air came together to render the power of fire and earth null. There too would be times where water and earth would suffocate life and what people called progress over a swatch of land. 

A type of hubris, Bedivere thought, one that told humanity they could build their legacies of pillars of salt and sand. They kept a faith that those who came after them could shore up the salt, turn it into something unmovable through the alchemy that is the unknown. 

In the end, there was no good, no evil. Only nature and what happened. Judgments helped sort things out, sure, but it was all the universe weaving itself as it willed, in the end.

“You'll work on your boy and I'll work on mine?” Palamedes offered.

“Mmhmm,” Bedivere agreed.

Kay, he knew, was never angry with Dinadan, but rather at himself for not having the answers; it was a resentment cultivated over the centuries that acted as a wound not even the most advanced medicines would be able to touch.

Still, he could be there, act as an safe harbor in whatever storm Kay was weathering while trying to ignore the force of the thing. After all, no matter what happened, no matter what was coming, they were all just walking each other home.

Whatever shape home took.


End file.
